


light which once burned

by skogr



Series: lighting candles [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Lyrium Withdrawal, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-20
Updated: 2016-10-20
Packaged: 2018-08-23 15:55:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8333584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skogr/pseuds/skogr
Summary: The expedition to the Shrine of Dumat takes its toll on Cullen's health.





	

**Author's Note:**

> A little warning: I'm putting Cullen through the wringer a little bit with this one (as is, apparently, my wont?) but everything is going to be a-okay ultimately!

It’s a crisp, clear morning, most of Skyhold still yet to stir, and Cullen is walking the ramparts ahead of the first patrol. He woke some time ago, with an ease and grace than is unfamiliar but welcome, the light streaming gently through the rafters above him, somehow softer and brighter than usual. A dreamless sleep is always welcome, and this morning has been especially appreciated for it.

Finding everything in order, he turns to head back to his office; he has several reports to both read and write, and the sharp clarity of his focus right now will make the task quick and painless, which it often isn’t. He has learned to take advantage of these things. Linnea is expected to return from Val Royeaux in the afternoon, and he wants to have everything present and correct for their customary debriefing in the War Room. There’s no telling how long this rush of productivity will last, and he means to make the most of it.

If it also clears some time from their schedules so they can borrow an hour or two for themselves, then all the better.

The mountains on the horizon puzzle him for a moment, but just for a moment. They look hazier than he can ever recall them being before, undefined to the point of undefinable - as he watches them, they seem to shift and fade before his eyes, more like the idea of mountains than the reality. A trick of the light, he decides, and the low lying clouds, and opens the door to his office. It doesn’t creak as it usually does, which pleases him disproportionately.

It isn’t until he has pushed the door closed behind him with a satisfying click that he notices the figure standing by his desk, who - like the mountains - is nothing more than a shadow for a moment, but then she pushes her hood back and smiles at him.

“Surprise,” Linnea says brightly, and Cullen finds himself smiling back foolishly, the moment of shadow instantly forgotten. She is almost glowing in the soft morning light, an otherworldly dream of pale eyes and full lips. It is as though her absence has made him forget just quite what she looks like; she is familiar and unfamiliar, more angular than he remembers, and more eerily beautiful.

“You’re early,” he says, framing it as a teasing accusation, and Linnea just gives him a coy little smirk that is both alluring and oddly out of place on her face. He takes a step closer, and she winds her arms around his neck with a sharp smile before she kisses him, slowly and precisely, arching her back beneath his hands. Something has changed, he thinks vaguely, something has changed her in the mere weeks since he last saw her.

“I’ve brought you a present,” she says, her voice low and suggestive in his ear, “would you like to see?” She pulls back to present him with an elegant paper box, embossed with looping script and delicate flowers. Since finding out that Cullen has somewhat of a weakness for sweet pastry, Linnea has always made a point of bringing something back from various Orlesian traders. “Josephine told me about this lovely little patisserie by the docks that I’ve never been to before, it comes highly recommended.”

Cullen frowns slightly. “I thought you went there last time.”

The look Linnea gives him is suddenly dismissive, annoyed. It scratches away at his happiness a little, and his smile falters. “No,” she says flatly, “you must be misremembering again.” The ‘again’ stings, and he drops his gaze to the floor with shame. “This was the first I’d heard of it.”

He should let it drop, but there’s something about it that feels - off-kilter. It makes him uneasy. “Wasn’t that - I thought the eclairs -”

“Why don’t you open it?” She thrusts the box at him, all smiles and charm once more.

He takes it apprehensively, thrown sideways by the force of her sharp, thin smile, and finds himself stalling. “Right now? I thought I might save them for later -”

“ _Open it.”_

He looks up at her then with alarm, and sees then what he missed before: the lines of her face that are _wrong_ , the way her smile is too symmetrical, too perfect, and the icy coldness of her eyes. He takes a step back, and knows suddenly that he very much does not want to open the box. He can’t say what’s inside it, but he knows that it’s something too terrible to even imagine. “Linnea, I -” Her name feels wrong in his mouth. “I can’t -”

“Open it, Cullen,” she purrs, “it’s a gift. I shall be _very_ offended if you don’t.”

He fumbles at the paper opening with shaking fingers, helpless to her demand. He can feel whatever is inside the box thrumming violently, desperate to be free. He can’t let it, he can’t -

He meets Linnea’s eyes to see them turning darker and darker, not just the pupils but the whites too, her smile turning cruel. “Very _good_. Just a little more -”

The lid tears open, and something crimson and foul and thick comes pouring out, and he can’t breathe, or see, or -

 

-

 

Cullen wakes up, truly, this time, gasping for air.

He drags his hands through his hair in agitation, trying his best to let the dream fade away into nothingness as they sometimes do, but this one is stubborn. It clings to the edges of his mind, the not-quite-right version of Linnea mocking him with her strange, cruel smile in the not-quite-right light of his almost-morning.

His one comfort is that they truly do expect her back at Skyhold today, that he can see her with his own eyes and reassure himself of all the things that were so horribly wrong with her in the Fade. Her eyes, soft and kind, and her smile, warm and beautifully lopsided.

He misses her. His burdens are his alone to bear, but he'd rather bear them with her there. This is rarely possible, which only makes the dream crueller.

His dreams have been unusually vivid since returning from the Shrine of Dumat, if he manages to sleep at all. Samson eluding them once more without a clear solution in sight has evidently unsettled him, though he hates to give him the satisfaction. Linnea, expected in the capital, had travelled straight to Val Royeaux, leaving Cullen and the Inquisition troops to wrap up the situation there and return to Skyhold ahead of her. As in his dream, they have a lot to discuss, and there is still a pile of reports on his desk, though his clarity of mind is gone. He intends to finish them all anyway, though his head aches and judging by the way the room spins gently around him, it isn’t about to abate any time soon.

No matter. He’ll see it done.

 

-

 

He meets Leliana and Josephine at their customary time in the War Room, having spent fruitless hours battling his growing headache and the stubborn pile of paperwork on his desk. They both take him in simultaneously as he enters the room, eyes moving quickly from the dark circles under his to the hunched posture to the tremor of his hand. Then, they both do him the courtesy of ignoring it, smiling and making small talk with renewed enthusiasm.

“The Inquisitor sent word ahead to let us know she will return later today,” Josephine says, and she and Leliana exchange an amused look.

“No doubt bringing you something sweet,” Leliana adds, and they both do a very poor job at concealing their matching grins.

Cullen is not in the mood to be teased about Linnea’s habit of bringing him cakes, however well intentioned. Not today.

“We have a lot to discuss,” he says flatly, and sees them exchange another - less amused - look out the corner of his eye.

“Of course,” Josephine says, and after a silence that lasts just a little longer than is comfortable, adds, “I have an update from our arcanist that might interest you.”

“Samson’s armour?’

“The very same.”

After that, they stick with business, and Cullen tries to loosen the vice like grip he has on the edge of the table. The map in front of him swims in and out of focus, and there's a faint but ever-present hum at the back of his consciousness that he can't quite ignore. It's persistent, grating, like that horrible noise his door makes that sets his nerves on edge.

He can't stop thinking about that damn box. She _will_ return with cakes, he knows she will, and he hates that it's been twisted now into something sinister. She's never been in his dreams before, not like that. That worries him the most.

As they wrap up their meeting, Cullen leaning heavily on the table with his forehead coated in a thin layer of sweat, Leliana does something she never has before.

“Commander, are you quite well?”

He is startled into meeting her eyes, looking away when he's faced with her concerned expression. They don't mention his health. They talk around it almost endlessly and they downplay whatever they do touch on, Leliana especially. She reminds him of Kinloch a little too much, sometimes, and she's more than astute enough to have picked up on his discomfort. He's not proud of that.

“A headache,” he says hoarsely, and she relents. No doubt at this point she normally reports back to Cassandra, but she is travelling with Linnea. He doesn't really talk about it with anyone else, and even then, as little as he can.

“I can speak with Dagna instead, if you wish.”

“No, no,” Cullen says, horrified at the idea of someone else picking up his slack, of being reminded of his own failures, “I'll speak with her.”

“Only if you're sure.”

“Quite sure.” He can't bear to meet either of their eyes. “It's just a headache.”

It is painfully clear that it is not just a headache.

“Well,” Josephine says brightly, cutting through the silence with expert precision. “Ought we meet tomorrow? I expect the Inquisitor will appreciate some time to rest when she returns.”

Cullen frowns at that, but he can't say for certain that it's for his benefit, and so lets it slip. “If there's nothing pressing.”

“No more than usual.”

“So quite pressing, then,” Cullen mutters, and his weak attempt at a joke seems to put them more at ease.

“It can wait until the morning,” Leliana says lightly, and levels a shrewd look at Cullen. “Shall I have something sent along? Perhaps some elfroot?”

“Thank you,” he says stiffly, though elfroot rarely provides any relief for this sort of pain. He suspects accepting it will reassure them, however. “That would be - appreciated.”

He waits until they've left the room before gathering up his reports, the shake of his hands now quite pronounced. It's a large, airy room without much clutter, but it feels suddenly quite tight and small. The walls drift gently as he looks as them, closer and closer and -

_No._ He takes a deep breath. Not now. Not here.

 

-

 

The undercroft is unpleasantly warm and humid, the roar of the water doing nothing for his headache. Whatever Dagna is doing is generating a lot of heat and steam, but at least it isn't out of place for him to wipe at his forehead with his sleeve. There's lyrium, too, somewhere amidst the chaos. He can tell.

“Hey, Commander,” she says, waving a tool at him in greeting that's he's reasonably certain shouldn't be waved about, “watch your feet.”

He steps dutifully around the ominous looking metal contraption by her work space. He first met Dagna when she came to Kinloch not long after the uprising, bright and eager and utterly at odds with the sombre mood that permeated the rest of the Circle’s residents. She has changed remarkably little. “I hear you're making progress?”

“It's very promising,” she says brightly, putting the tool down and pulling off her gloves, “I think I might need more lyrium, though.”

“I'll see that you get it,” he says, and closes his eyes briefly against the _feel_ of the lyrium in the heavy air, the persistent humming at the back of his mind growing louder and deeper. He shakes his head slightly. “Have Maddox’s tools proved useful?”

“Oh, absolutely!” Dagna gestures towards the worktop with a grin. “Red lyrium is completely different to work with than the regular stuff, but the Inquisitor made sure I got plenty of samples.”

Cullen snorts. “I'm sure. You think you can find a way to compromise his armour, then?”

“Give me a week and more lyrium, and I'll have something ready for you.” Dagna gestures again to her worktop. “I'm working on a rune I think should do the trick.”

Cullen leans in to look at the half-finished rune, glowing a gentle red and giving off considerable heat for its size. Red lyrium always unsettles him, but this seems to reach out invisible tendrils and pull him closer, closer. The humming in his head grows to a roar, insistent and loud and _angry_.

He pulls back with a jerk, though the noise remains constant, drowning out his next words so he can hardly hear himself.

“Good work,” he says, his own voice indistinct and far away, “let me know when it's ready.”

“Will do, Commander.”

He has to stop several times on the stairwell as he makes his way up, head spinning and aching. He can still hear Dagna working, the hiss of steam and clang of metal, and the dull rush of the water overlaying her friendly chatter.

And the song. Always the song.

 

-

 

Once he's back in the safety of his office, he shuts the door - damn thing still squeaks - and slumps in his chair. It's beautifully cool, the breeze travelling gently down through the hole in the roof to where he sits. It's never too warm or too oppressive here, no still, stale air or seamless walls to close in on him and pen him in. Here, he can breathe.

The elfroot concoction Leliana promised is on his desk, but he ignores it. It won't help. He will simply have to wait this out. He's waited out worse before.

It isn't - _worse_. It's bad. But not worse, not yet. He need to sit very still and breathe, to keep breathing, and he needs not to think about that box, he needs to not think about anything.

He's not sure how long he sits like that. Hours, maybe.

There's a knock on his door, and he does his best to compose himself, to not slump quite so weakly in his chair. There's no much he can do about his shining face, or the odd pallor of his skin, but - well. He's sure he's looked worse.

“Yes?” he croaks, and then clears his throat, calling out hoarsely but more audibly, “come in.”

The door opens without a sound, the intruder lifting it upwards carefully by the handle as they open it inwards, as if the motion is practiced and habitual, as if many early mornings and late nights have been spent slipping in and out noiselessly. Cullen lifts his head towards the door, something light and warm in his chest amidst the heaviness.

It _is_ Linnea, no longer in her travelling gear and the ends of her hair still slightly damp. She must have returned some time ago, then, and he missed the noise in the courtyard. He tries not to let that alarm him.

She closes the door with the same absent minded carefulness; she has closed it as softly as she can since she first noticed him wince at that awful, grating squeak. She smiles at him - how could he ever have mistaken than _thing_ for her - and then leans back against the door with a sigh.

There’s always that moment when she first returns after an absence, however long - just a moment, but it’s there nonetheless - where the time apart makes him almost shy. It's made worse by the pounding in his head and his reluctance to reveal his current deterioration in health. He doesn't trust his legs to hold him if he stands, or his voice to be steady if he speaks, so he just takes a long look at her through bleary eyes and lets the full extent of just how much he missed her well up inside of him. He doesn't let himself dwell on that particularly foolish emotion most of the time, but now -

“I'm exhausted,” she says, in that light but confessional way they have, only able to be truly honest only each other, “you wouldn't believe the journey I've had.”

He finds his voice, it sounds nothing more than tired though it scratches his throat on the way out. “Not another dragon, I hope.”

“Why?” She grins at him. “You're not _worried_ , are you, Commander?”

“For the dragon,” he says dryly, and she laughs delightedly. There is nothing sharp about it at all, just as there's no edge to her smile. Dreadful as he feels, that sets something unhappy and worried inside him at ease for the first time since he woke up.

“I am making rather a habit of it, aren't I?” She pushes back from the door and crosses to his desk, still grinning. “Nothing like that this time, but who knows -” She stops abruptly as she approaches, examining his face intently and her own expression turns to one of concern. “Are you alright?”

He clears his throat and finds his voice has abandoned him again. “I - I've -” He rises as she crosses to the side of the desk he is sat at, having to clutch immediately for the corner to support himself. It is not quite sufficient and he finds Linnea propping him up, much to his shame.

“Cullen,” she says quietly, grasping his arm as he fumbles for the desk and achieves a standing position, however weak. “You're not well.”

“It'll pass,” he says, “it's of no concern.”

“It's of concern to _me._ ” She presses a hand to his forehead. “You should have said something.”

“It'll pass,” he says, with more conviction than he currently feels, “you have enough to worry about.”

“ _Cullen_ ,” she says, gentle but exasperated, and the candle at his desk flickers weakly, burnt to a stub. It's another reminder of the hours he appears to have misplaced since he lit it. Linnea eyes the candle with annoyance as it flickers again, then once more, then abruptly goes out, leaving them in darkness. She reaches out towards with her left hand, passing her fingers over the wick impatiently and lighting it once more, in a gesture as nonchalant as it is impressively controlled, and he hardly knows how he feels about that.

The flame burns brighter than it would naturally for a long moment, throwing her face into sharp shadow. It is - unfamiliar. Too much like the dark things he finds in the Fade. He looks away.

“Cullen,” she says again, and reaches towards him once more, and -

It's rusty, weak, and close enough to ineffective, but some half remembered instinct kicks in through the haziness of the pain before he can stop it. Linnea’s fingers stretch toward him and he panics, inexplicably and unforgivably, thinking of horror-filled boxes and harsh magical barriers. As he flinches from her touch he reaches for something unfamiliar but never quite forgotten.

The spell purge hits her squarely despite its ineffectiveness, and she takes half a step back as the candle snaps back into darkness. Cullen can't think of a single moment where he's hated himself more.

It also takes whatever last vestige of strength he had, and he leans even more heavily on the desk, trying to croak out some kind of inadequate, useless apology. Was it always like this? Like he was wrenching something from his veins sharp as broken glass?

“That was thoughtless of me,” Linnea says at last, clearly winded but doing her best to appear unaffected. That makes it worse. “I shouldn't have -”

“No,” he manages to rasp, bending further over the table and fighting against the roaring in his ears, “I should _never_ \- “

The desk seems to slip beneath him, everything even darker than is warranted by the lack of candlelight. He stumbles. Someone calls his name, he hears it faintly as his hands clutch at nothing. The roaring stops abruptly as the world goes quiet and still.

His veins burn bright and sharp and raw.

 

-

 

He wakes up in his own bed with a start, his last few memories faded and mismatched, and in his initial panic he sits upright suddenly and he thinks he calls Linnea’s name. There’s no one; he’s alone. He slumps back in his bed.

Or maybe not so alone.

“Good afternoon,” comes a cheerful voice, and Cullen turns to see Dorian perched on a crate, book in hand. “There’s no need to look so disappointed, it was either me or Cassandra.” He turns back to his book.

Cullen rubs at his forehead, the throbbing between his eyes steady but dull. His muscles ache. His throat feels raw and unused, and the words come out raspy. “Why are you - where’s Linnea?”

That seems to rouse Dorian more efficiently than before, and he actually closes the book to regard Cullen curiously. “Emprise du Lion, she left this morning. Are you actually awake this time? I do believe you might be.”

“Actually awake?”

“Yes, you’ve been waking up fairly regularly but talking complete nonsense. Do you remember anything?”

“I remember -” Cullen grimaces. He remembers nothing much beyond Linnea reaching for him, and - “No. How long?”

“Two days.” Dorian still has that look on his face like he’s found a fascinating new project, and Cullen very much resents it being him. “Have you always talked in your sleep? You were so convincingly lucid, it was quite remarkable.”

Cullen ignores that, and tries to prop himself weakly up on one elbow. “What happened?”

“Ah, yes,” Dorian says delicately, and puts the book down completely. “First things first, how are you feeling?”

“I’m fine,” Cullen says hoarsely, and then at Dorian’s incredulous look, amends his answer, “I’ve been worse.”

Dorian raises his eyes upwards and sighs. “Always so _horrifyingly_ stoic. Very well. I’ve been doing a little light reading and I think I might have a answer for you.” Dorian taps the book. “Only a theory, mind you, our templars don’t take lyrium in Tevinter, and your Southern scholarship on the matter is nowhere near as thorough as we’d be. Not to mention red lyrium is another matter entirely -”

Cullen makes an irritated sound in the back of his throat. “What’s red lyrium got to do with anything?”

“The Shrine of Dumat.”

“Yes?”

“It was covered in red lyrium, was it not?”

“Yes, but I don’t -”

“It’s been repeatedly shown that red lyrium needn’t be _ingested_ to affect people, and I believe during our little jaunt you may have been overexposed to the stuff.” Cullen falls silent as Dorian continues, still watching him curiously. “We parted ways, you returned to Skyhold, and for a few days, it didn’t affect you at all. If anything, you felt stronger and more energised.”

Dorian looks to him for confirmation, and Cullen frowns. “Perhaps. I can’t say it was significant.”

“Your body is still somewhat used to lyrium, adding it back into the equation wouldn’t necessarily have upset the balance. It was only a few days later, when the red lyrium you had somehow - _absorbed_ \- began to fade in potency that you started to experience some kind of peculiar withdrawal, probably related to the fact you are already experiencing that on a lesser level. It might have passed without incident and been just another unremarkable day of ill health were it not for -” Dorian hesitates, and shoots Cullen an almost apologetic look, “ - were it not for what transpired between you and the Inquisitor. That is, you used the red lyrium inadvertently to dispel the magic, and in doing so, I believe you opened yourself up more fully to its destructive qualities.”

Cullen clenches his jaw. “And then?”

“You’ve had a rough few days, Commander. Don’t you remember any of it?”

He remembers Linnea, her voice and her cool hands. He remembers his guilt. “No.”

“Fascinating,” Dorian says, and Cullen looks away, not prepared to be a research project.

“Am I -” He swallows, his throat dry. “Has the red lyrium -”

“Not that I can see.” Dorian smiles reassuringly. “Although I would advise caution when around it in the future, however.”

“How can you be sure?”

“There _are_ still traces in your veins, and there will be for some time, but it shouldn’t bother you any more than the regular lyrium.”

“I haven’t taken lyrium for some time.”

“It actually stays in your body for an absurdly long time,” Dorian says, “though the half life is quite short and it’s nowhere near as potent after just a few days, but it explains why lyrium withdrawal is such a prolonged affair. It’s fascinating just how much -”

“I’ve been exposed to red lyrium before,” Cullen says, cutting him off a little abruptly, “I don’t see what changed.”

“Any number of variables, really.” Dorian leans forward in his seat. “I wonder if it affects lyrium users more if they’ve since given up lyrium, most of the cases we’ve seen have been lyrium users already simply replacing normal lyrium with red. It could’ve been anything. Perhaps your withdrawal was more pronounced that day, perhaps you were simply already a little under the weather.”

“Under the _weather_ ,” Cullen repeats through gritted teeth, and Dorian looks at him gently for what feels like the first time, academic curiosity put aside for a moment.

“Sometimes, Cullen,” he says kindly, “things happen that are beyond your control. I suspect you’ll struggle to accept this, but do _try_ , would you?”

Cullen looks away. “You didn’t accompany her?”

“It’s far too cold there for my delicate sensibilities,” Dorian says tartly, but then he smiles in a way that says, perhaps, it was friendship that kept him here instead. Cullen is humbled and embarrassed by this unspoken admission, and feels entirely unequipped to offer anything in return.

He clears his throat. “You drew the short straw.”

“Nonsense,” Dorian says cheerfully, and there's a lengthy - but not uncomfortable - silence.

There's no other way to ask, so Cullen keeps his eyes fixed firmly on the ceiling and just asks, heart in his throat. “Did I hurt her?”

“You _worried_ her, Cullen. Nothing more.”

“It should never have happened. I should not have _allowed_ it to happen.”

“It was hardly intentional, and no harm done.” Dorian leans forward again as Cullen looks at him incredulously. “I understand. Truly, I do. I know you think I'm terribly blasé about magic but I promise you, I do hold myself accountable for things that are my doing. Things that aren't, though, things like being unwell and confused -”

“It isn't that simple.”

“No, and nothing ever will be if you insist on holding yourself to some impossible standard.” Dorian drums his fingers impatiently on his knee. “Look, as I told _her_ , I’m not a messenger. I’m here as your friend, not her proxy, and if you want to communicate there’s a perfectly good rookery full of willing volunteers. What I will say, though, is she was _worried_ , because she _cares_ about you. If you really think this has changed any of that, then I don’t know what to say to you.”

Cullen runs a hand through his hair in agitation, but says nothing. It _isn’t_ that simple. There is a long silence, still not entirely uncomfortable, but heavy nonetheless.

“I had a dream,” he says eventually, reluctant to begin but finding it impossible not to say, “before she returned - it was like her but nothing like her, and she brought me cakes, but there was something terrible inside the box. For a moment, I -” He shakes his head. “It sounds foolish, but I was - unnerved.” It's a poor explanation, but it's all he feels able to give.

“The Fade is often cruel or confusing, and sometimes both,” Dorian says, “I wouldn’t put too much stock in it, if I were you.”

Cullen nods. “Of course, it’s just - it’s never been her before.” That comes out a little too unguarded for his liking, and so he clears his throat and pushes himself a little more upright in the bed. “I suppose she did bring cakes, though?”

Dorian grins. “Ahh, yes, about those…”

“You _didn’t_.”

“Commander, they were almost stale and were going to waste. Something had to be done.”

“You're a paragon of selflessness,” Cullen says, leaning back against the frame of his bed and trying to will back the dizziness. He takes a few deep breaths. “I don't suppose anything useful has been done around here?” He manoeuvres himself with jerky movements so his legs are hanging over the bed, steadying himself with his hands and taking deep breaths.

“Not likely, it seems your men think you've had a particularly nasty and infectious illness and have been keeping their distance diligently.” Dorian raises an eyebrow. “I'm supposed to keep you bedridden until you're quite recovered. I can't guarantee there won't be a relapse.”

“I feel fine.”

“Evidently, is that why you're shaking?” Dorian leans back with a satisfied smirk. “Go on. No, really, go on. You can barely sit upright, I'm fascinated to see how you plan on navigating the ladder.”

Cullen scowls; he knows defeat when he sees it. “I wouldn't have to leave my bed if you bring me my reports.”

“Commander, if I could bottle your stubbornness and sell it I would make a fortune. Maker's breath, _lie down_ , I'm not even considering it until you've eaten something. I'll have something brought.”

“Hopefully you won't eat _that_ too,” Cullen mutters slumping back into his bed with resignation.

“And there's the crotchety old curmudgeon we all know and love,” Dorian says with a laugh, “you'll be up and about in no time.”

He disappears with the promise of food, leaving Cullen alone with his guilt and shaking hands.

And the song. _Always_ the song.

  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> This started as a sort of tongue in cheek response to some of the gameplay handwaving of red lyrium just like, hanging out all over the place. And turned into pain. 
> 
> (I think there will be one more chapter, but it might be two depending on how much it runs away with me.)


End file.
